


goodbye eden

by honeynovella



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Eating Disorders, F/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Starvation, War, lots of eating tw, please dont read if you are sensitive to these topics, tw eating disorder, tw ptsd, tw starvation, tw war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-28 03:05:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15698847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeynovella/pseuds/honeynovella
Summary: the year is 1987. elizaveta finally returns home after living under an oppressive soviet regime for nearly four decades. and although her bones are protruding from under her skin and her body is falling apart, she carries a weight on her heavier than any burden she's ever had before.





	goodbye eden

**Author's Note:**

> TW: eating disorders, mentions of suicide, suicidal thoughts, implications of depression, etc
> 
> if you are sensitive to any of these subjects: please don't read, for your own well-being <3

**Budapest, 1987**

She’s flipping aimlessly through magazines, or so she tells herself.

Really, she's staring at the girls in the magazines. The models. They pose at awkward angles and their long legs hold them up, seemingly above the rest of society. One image is angled upward, perhaps to create the illusion of the model having longer, smoother legs (though she isn’t sure how that would be possible at this point.) The skinny girl stares sharply down at the camera and directly into her eyes. She looks down on her.

Elizaveta flips the page quickly, looking up to clear the image from her mind before staring at the next two bone thin models. They lean on each other, as though they will topple over if they don’t. They’re so skinny Elizaveta figures a strong gust of wind would be able to knock them over.

She tells herself that she’s just aimlessly flipping through the magazine. She tells herself it’s entertainment.

Deep down, she knows she’s not entertaining her best interests, but she can’t seem to stop. It’s like watching a train wreck; she can’t seem to look away.

Her eyes fall on the paler of the two models and stay there. The model has the same coloring as Elizaveta: light brown hair, soft green eyes, and pale skin with a pink undertone. She looks at the model's arms, and how gracefully they fall by her side, skinny and not unproportional. Rather than sticking out, they complement her torso and small chest by being just as sized down as the rest of her. Elizaveta licks her top lip, as if hungry, and dog-ears the page. She takes one last look at the smoky makeup before standing up and making her way to the bathroom.

It’s early in the morning, yet the streets outside of her small apartment are full of commuters. She’s lucky she’s allowed to finally live in Budapest again. After years of good behavior and nearly going crazy, Ivan’s government finally allowed her to return to her city. They provided her with an apartment, of course, seeing as her old estates were now “property of the government.” She had nearly burst into tears when she hears rumors of her old summer home possibly being converted into a museum. However, the rumors revealed themselves to be false, and her summer home, dusty, vacant, and unkempt, remained.

Aside from the fact that she is still living under a Soviet regime, Elizaveta considers herself freer than she’s been in nearly a two and a half decades. 

Elizaveta goes to the bathroom and immediately turned on the faucet. She cups her hands and lets water collect in her palms before splashing her face a few times. Her skin feels cold, even after the warm water has cleaned it. Elizaveta dries her face with a towel and looks at herself in the mirror. Sighing, she pulls her frizzy hair into a ponytail and brushes the side-swept bangs out of her face.

After staring for a few moments, she leans in, pressing her fingers against the skin on her face as if making sure it’s still there. She pokes the smooth, tight skin on her cheeks and tugs on her dark circles. She runs the tip of her finger down the bridge of her nose and pulls the slightly sagging skin on the side of her eyelids upwards. 

She looks twenty-two. She looks so very young. Most of all, she looks tired. All she wants is a glow which envied that of the models in the magazine. She opens the cabinet under the sink and fishes out a white bottle of moisturizer, dotting the cream onto various parts of her face. She examines the glow the moisturizer gives her before acknowledging her satisfaction with the product.

Elizaveta then proceeds to lift up her shirt, looking at her stomach in the mirror. It is flat. Well, not flat, but rather concave. It sags inward ever so slightly and when she pushes out, her stomach becomes perfectly flat. She lifts her shirt further and is able to see her ribcage protruding slightly against her skin. Counting, she can see three ribs right where she wants them. It has been easy for her to track her weight when she looks at her chest. Her goal was to see three ribs, and there they are, curved upward, smiling back at her. 

It is control. 

Because after living in a frozen over hell for four decades, every single second of her existence monitored and portioned for her, she was free. She was free but alone, unorganized, and struggling. And she was so afraid of going back. She was fucking terrified.

She stares at herself still, the tan on the walls becoming a sludge brown in her blurring vision. Her reflection looks strong and colorful. In fact, her reflection is smiling at her and gesturing for her to join her. _It must be so sunny where you are_ , she thinks to herself. _It must be warm_.

A knock resounds throughout the apartment, shattering Elizaveta’s old self and bringing her back to reality. She is no longer strong looking; now her expression is that of surprise. 

There is another knock at her front door and she quickly looks at the loose-hanging watch on her wrist to check the time. 

“Shit,” she says, rushing to her room and looking for something to wear. She quickly strips from her pajamas and frantically pulls on a pair of jeans just as another knock resounds.

“Sorry, I’m coming!” she calls, hoping her voice carries out the door to her visitor. She takes a white flowy blouse with crocheted lace at the collarbone and throws it over her head, struggling to pull it down over her torso. Elizaveta runs to the front door and opens it just at the flowy, ruffled hem falls over her torso, hiding the damage she’s done to herself. Her collarbone protrudes sharply against her skin, and the lace lays gently over the shadowed divots of skin on bone. 

Her visitor stands before her, caught off guard looking at his rather expensive looking watch. He looks up from the watch with his light violet-brown eyes and fixates his gaze on her. The winter has made his skin pale. He’s wearing a black trench coat with a red scarf wrapped around his neck and in his leather gloved hands, a plastic box of vanilla poppy seed kiflik. He smiles calmly at her and steps inside the apartment to embrace her.

And she lets him. Though his coat is cold, his arms being around her makes her feel warmer than she’s felt in decades.

“Hi, Roddy,” she says in a soft, quiet voice. 

His response is brief. “Hi, Liz.”

They stay like that for a while, just holding each other and taking in each other presences. Elizaveta hasn’t seen Roderich since 1961, that dreadful year when she dug herself into a hole so deep she wasn’t sure if she would ever get out. It was the year when she had snapped and finally attempted—and succeeded—at escaping the Soviet Union. Her last letter to Roderich had contained her desperate pleas to meet her in Moldova. Because of her docile and obedient behavior, her letters where no longer being checked. Therefore, Roderich had been there, waiting for her at the border when she crossed over from Ukraine. 

It had been a desperate attempt at freedom, one that would surely fail her. How could she have been so stupid as to make another attempt at freedom when the last one had only been 5 years prior? That revolution had failed too. Of course, she was caught, and every privilege she had been easily granted was taken away. Worse things had happened too. She remembered feeling so much pain that after a week of brutalities she couldn’t decipher it from numbness. The days blended together until she was sure she was just floating—well, more like being dragged by her hair across a cement floor—through the days. She learned to isolate herself and cry when it counted. For nearly two decades she numbed herself into silence. Not even Katya cheered her up anymore. She remembers the feeling of pure dread and such a deep-rooted sadness filling up her chest every time she opened her eyes and closed them to go to sleep. It was in that time that a darkness like none other overtook her, making her wish she was mortal so that she could die. It wasn’t until a day spent in her room, crying into her pillow with the curtains drawn did she feel something. She had stayed in her room for six hours, refusing anyone who came to the door. Naturally, at the end of the day, she felt hunger. And Elizaveta relished in it.

How rare to feel something other than sadness, she had thought. It wasn’t death or suffering but it was a feeling she could manipulate. And even better, she couldn’t die from this. Ivan and the lower status government-affiliated men who oversaw their living had long since taken away her right to any weapons; kitchen knives, nail files, and bobby pins included. Not only had this kept her from harming them, but it kept her from harming herself. Now, however, she had a different weapon. Even as a prisoner she maintained control over herself and her imprisoners. Little did they know they would also be suffering the consequences of her malnourishment.

After his government allowed them to live in their native lands, she felt hope for her future for the first time since the beginning of the century. Presently, she is no longer in the dark place she was when she lived in with Russia and the others. Presently, she is embracing someone she loves more than anything in the world.

They pull away and Elizaveta makes small talk as she shows him around her apartment. 

“I can’t believe it’s taken this long to come together, but I finally finished everything,” she says, showing Roderich the modest one bedroom apartment. “They really weren’t keen on letting me decorate it after I had the essentials. It took a lot of pushing to finally get them to raise my budget so I could keep this place from looking drab. And even after the accessorizing, I think it looks boring.”

Roderich chuckles and lets his eyes wander beyond their conversation. “I’m just glad you still have fresh flowers in every room. I’m glad you kept that habit.”

She shrugs and ignores the sudden pain she feels in her abdomen. She’s long since grown accustomed to these pains but it still surprises her nonetheless. “Yeah, me too. Flowers make things feel homey. I think I needed them.”

“Understandable, of course,” Roderich says, walking to the dining room table. He eyes the magazine and touches the pages before turning his attention to the window. “What a lovely view,” he remarks as he takes off his coat.

Elizaveta suddenly feels guilty and walks over to him, staring at the magazine with concern. Her body shows what she’s done, but she can’t make Roderich aware.

“Isn’t it?” she says, faking tidying up by grabbing the magazine and her half-empty mug of hot water from the morning. She misses coffee, but whenever she indulged in it she felt guilty afterward. Instead, she opts for boiled water every morning to fill in the routine drink.

“Someday you’ll have your estates back,” he remarks, suddenly changing the subject. “I always liked the one on Lake Balaton. Lots of windows and wildflowers around the property.”

She nods slowly, having been caught off guard by his comment. He’s said exactly what she’s been telling herself for years: _One day, one day, one day…_ But one day never seems to come, and she’s still trapped in a small, one bedroom apartment. “Yeah, one day,” she says tiredly, looking out the window and at the cars revving beneath them.

After a few more meaningless chats about the apartment’s appearance (most Elizaveta apologizing for it), Roderich takes off his coat and they venture into the small kitchen where Elizaveta tasks herself with the job of making him something to eat. She remembers always making meals for them when they were together, but now she can’t stomach the thought. As she cuts tomatoes and mozzarella, it’s hard to imagine her eating this much.

The plate is set in front of him on the counter, and he sits across from her on the island stools. She leans against the counter across from him, her bony arms digging into the hard granite counter; she pretends it doesn’t hurt.

“So,” she starts as Roderich starts the food on his plate, “how is everything for you?”

He cuts a tomato and shrugs as if he’s uninterested. “Different… than before at least,” he says. “With America running the show―well not so much anymore but he definitely made his mark―I’m… not Austria anymore.” he pauses and looks up at her, shaking his head. “That doesn’t make sense. Sorry, I don’t know how to―”

“No, I understand,” she interrupts, causing him to look less unsure. “It’s like… anything you were―a… a strong nation, an _empire_ … It doesn’t matter to them. Not anymore at least. You’re just the aftermath of too many mistakes.”

He tilts his head. “Is this… directed at me or you?”

She smiles lightly and shrugs. “We both made mistakes… but more so me. You know I stood by whatever you did.”

“Then I was just the one leading you to the mistakes if you stood by everything I did,” he chimes up, mirroring her reminiscent smile. “Nevertheless, we made them together.”

“I don’t mean that, Roderich,” she says, smiling fading marginally. “I mean… God, this is sappy,” she laughs.

“Liz, you realize we were married. Anything you say won’t be nearly as sappy as that old relationship,” he teased. 

“But that’s exactly what it’s about!” Elizaveta laughs breathily. She starts her next sentence with more clarity and less of a casual tone. “I mean that when we weren’t together―when I was alone―I didn’t know how to function. I made so many selfish, horrible decisions and dug myself into a hole. And then I was the bad guy again, and that’s _history_. That’s my name, branded in red with _She was one of the bad guys_ all over. And that’s what America sees, and what the rest of them see now. I’m a small, Eastern country locked away behind a curtain and rightfully so, in their minds. My suffering… they thought it appropriate.” When she finishes, she alarmed by how much weight she’s shed just by voicing her mind. How liberating it was to not have to starve herself in order to feel unrestricted and free.

Roderich is quiet for a moment, clearly contemplating his next words. He’s always been thoughtful like that, Elizaveta remembers. He’s always made sure his words were his before he spoke them. 

“I know,” he says finally. “It’s strange and unprecedented. And I feel so _fucking_ guilty about it.” At this point, he’s put down his silverware and his food is untouched, perhaps tempting Elizaveta. She remains still, but her feelings of restriction aren’t as strong anymore. She wants to let go. 

“Don’t feel guilty, please. You didn’t do anything,” she reasons.

“Please,” he scoffs, leaning back in his chair and looking up at her with clear purple eyes she always found so beautiful. “Liz, we were both the bad guys. I didn’t fight; I was a coward. You served your people as best you could until the bitter end. You’re right to say i didn’t do anything―in fact, I rolled over like a lapdog.”

She sighs and looks down at her feet and then her hands, which are gripping the sleeves of her shirt tightly. She wants to think of words strong enough to erase the doubt and guilt from his mind but he is a critic, and she is weak. Too weak to acknowledge how she felt about the topic. That was the thing about restriction―it made you weak and numb, so as to keep any feelings of pain, hunger, sadness, and longing at bay. Granted, happiness and joy rarely made it through this filter of restraint. But it was a worthy price in her eyes. She’d rather see the world through a gray emotionless film than see all the daunting colors of the world approaching her at the same time. 

So when she looks in Roderich’s colorful purple eyes and doesn’t feel anything, it is when she feels pain and anguish. It’s staring into his eyes that she remembers the joy and comfort they used to bring, and how empty the absence of that feeling makes her. Standing across from him at her counter and feeling nothing in his purple eyes causes her so much pain that her stomach feels as though it's been pierced by the sharpest blade in the world. She tears up and turns away.

“Liz?” Roderich asks in a concerned voice. For a moment, he’s caught off guard by the bones visible through her shirt. It’s flowy at the bottom and tighter at the top, adorned with crocheted lace. He can see her shoulder blades peeking out against the fabric and her spiny poking out at the nape of her neck. It is grotesque, to say the least, but he doesn’t let this keep him from speaking to her. “Are you okay? Did I say something wrong?”

She shakes her head and looks down, light brown hair falling in her face. “No,” she pushes out, trying to ignore the pain. But it’s sharper than normal. It isn’t the same as the pain she’s felt in the past, the dull aches she was sure would pass over time. It’s a pain that demands attention and recognition. It’s a slap in the face that says _look at me this instant_. “I’m okay. It’s a touchy subject,” she lies.

Roderich walks behind the counter where she stands with her back to him. She feels his arms snake around her and holds her there tightly. He holds her firmly, but not hard enough to make her gasp for air, the way Alfred or Feliciano would hug her. He’s gentle with her, but not condescendingly so. He knows she won't break; in fact, he knows that if he doesn’t hold her close enough, she might just fall apart. 

“Whatever happened,” he starts softly, quietly, “in the war... our past, or in Russia―it isn’t you anymore, Liz. And that’s a good thing. This is a fresh start. This is your freedom, your chance to _choose_ how you want to live. You aren’t a territory to be controlled―you are the controller. It’s what I’ve always wanted for you.”

“It’s not that simple,” she whispers back, her voice cracking. “It’s never that easy.”

He squeezes her gently one more time before releasing her. “You know it is,” he says.

Elizaveta turns around finally and gazes up at Roderich. Her cheeks are stained pink from the tears that rolled down them just moments ago. She isn’t quite sure what she’s doing when she leans in, but it’s all too similar to her dreams not to take a chance. They kiss gently as they have 100 times before. Then they immediately pull away.

It feels like they stare at each other for an eternity before Roderich clears his throat and looks at his feet to conceal his rosy blush. “I...I should go,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “But I’ll be back Saturday.”

“Okay,” is all Liz says.

And just as quick as he came, he was gone. 

She thought about his words for a while as she sipped the last of her lukewarm water and contemplated how full and healing death would be. If only her body allowed her to die and decay. 

And even after thinking about how she would go about ending her life if she physically could, she went into the kitchen late after the sunset and cracked open the plastic container that held the kiflik. She took one into her hand, feeling the buttery outside coat her fingertips and the black poppy seeds like freckles on cheeks. She wondered if this was really control, and popped a kifli into her mouth with ease. It was soft and sweet. 

She decided control did not equal happiness.

**Author's Note:**

> hi,
> 
> this was a drabble i wrote when i was in a very dark place. i am better now than i was when i wrote this. if you relate to any of the heavy feelings that were discussed in this, know that you're not alone and there is help for you <3
> 
> sorry for my lack of activity. i was in amsterdam playing hockey for 18 days :')
> 
> see you in the next one,  
> tate


End file.
